Every novel is a new adventure and a fresh research challenge, and I have been blessed to be able to spend time as a ‘forensic tourist’ amongst specialists and wonderful real-life characters who have been generous with their time and assistance. A special thank you must go to former police officer, forensic polygraph examiner and great mate Steve Van Aperen of Australian Polygraph Services International; poisons expert, award-winning author and pharmacist Gail Bell; pharmacist John Fregon; psychopathy expert Dr Robert Hare; barristers at law Jason Pennell and Sarah Fregon; forensic psychologists Tim Watson-Munro and Carla Lechner; security specialist and private investigator Carl Donadio and Once Blue; Tony Zalewski of the Australian Institute of Public Safety; the Quantico FBI Academy; Sergeant Glenn ‘Standing By’ Hayward; Spy Quip World; Mistress Serenity; The Castle; the larger-than-life Maxine Fensom; Alison Arnot-Bradshaw; Abracadabra Films for
Trafficked;
and Ray and the ladies of Goldfingers
—with a special mention to Charlotte for my first private dance. Also, thank you to John Austin for the coffins; Drayson at O’Connell’s for the name; my anonymous Mistress friends for the peek into your world; and to the two-wheeled fiends at the Victorian branch of Women’s International Motorcycling Association and Netrider.
Thank you so much to my literary agent and fairy godmother Selwa Anthony for the faith and support. You made my childhood dream of being a published writer come true. I am grateful to the whole gang at HarperCollins Australia for believing in me when I was an unpublished gamble. Special thanks go to Shona Martyn, Linda Funnell, Mel Cain, Louisa Dear and Angelo Loukakis. Also thanks to National Geographic Channel; Craig Schneider of Pinnacle PR; the lovely Di Rolle; Martin Walsh at Chadwick; Saxtons; Bolinda Audio; and everyone at Sisters In Crime.
Lots of love to the Moss, Carlson, Bosch, Hooft, Fregon and Pennell clans, particularly my wonderful sister, Jackie; my father, Bob; lovely Lou; Auntie Ellie and Herman; Oma and our beloved Opa (we miss you); Heather; John; Nell (the life of the party, we miss you); Louise; Sarah; Jason and little Ella; and all my great friends, especially Captain Millimum; ‘the gang’: Irving, Hugh, Deb, Ava and Oscar; Gloria; Mark; Jac and Mitchell; brilliant artist and friend Nafisa Naomi;
Russell; Mindy; John and Flynn; fabulous Amelia; Desi and Robert; Linda (Miss J forever!); Bob and Margot Atkins; Xanthe; Laidley and the McLaughlin family; the Myman clan (when are you moving?); Misty; Pete and Anne; Tracey and Charles Millard and Charlie (thank you for the Brisbane
Covet
launch!).
Love to my buddies Bo, Gomez, Thing and the pond dwellers for the furry and scaly writer’s companionship on countless dark nights burning the midnight oil.
Mum, I never forget you.
Tara Moss
To new beginnings…
siren
—noun
Security is mostly a superstition.
It does not exist in nature.
HELEN KELLER
A brief glow peeked through the curtains, washing the crowd in crimson light, before the little theatre plunged into shadow. There were murmurs, and then renewed silence, ears straining for sounds beyond the curtain.
Shhhh…
It was late in Paris, and the infamously unsavoury streets of Pigalle were dark, though anything but quiet. Tucked away inside the venue at the end of Rue Chaptal, the audience was fully immersed in the claustrophobic atmosphere of Le Théâtre des Horreurs. Men and women sat quietly in their seats, some holding hands, some sitting tensely with crossed arms, all overlooked by a pair of two-metre carved angels hanging above the neo-Gothic wood panelling of the interior. In the stygian darkness, the angels seemed to glow with a sickly green light, the origins of which were not clear. The theatre had once served as a church, but those gathered this night had come to find entertainment in acts of iniquity and horror, not divine solace. Rather than lighten the spirits of
those present, the ghostly angels added to the sensation of a tomb-like proximity with death.
A stark spotlight hit the darkened stage, and a delicate dancer emerged into the pool of light, toe first, as if stepping into water. She was dressed in the corset, fishnet stockings and top hat of burlesque tradition, her
chapeau
set at an artful angle atop a wavy platinum-blonde wig: a nod, perhaps, to the nearby Moulin Rouge. The eyes of each silent audience member followed the fragile beauty as if mesmerised. She held aloft a painted placard, which in elaborate script declared the final ghoulish act of the evening’s program:
Le Baiser Dans La Nuit
With a wink for the tourists, she turned the placard over to reveal the English title printed on the other side:
The Final Kiss
In moments the young woman had vanished, and the red velvet curtains parted. The audience found themselves peering voyeuristically at a small lounge room in the centre of which a male character—ominously bandaged from chin to forehead—sat grimly while a doctor and a nurse changed the dressings on his face. The young man’s back was to the audience, fists clenched at his sides. His laboured breathing communicated wordless agony.
‘I’ve never seen anything as appalling as these injuries,’ the doctor was saying to his nurse. ‘And I hope I never see anything like them again. Sulphuric acid.
Vitriol.
That’s what caused this. An acid attack…’
Acid.
With the patient’s back still to the audience, the extent of his wounds was left to their imagination, by now active with horror.
‘They happen too often, sir,’ the young nurse replied through a voice half swallowed by revulsion. She was dressed in the black-and-white uniform of her profession, a Catholic red cross emblazoned on her cap. From her unnerved expression, it was clear she was deeply troubled by the patient’s appearance.
‘Light…light burns my eyes,’ the man complained sullenly, naked of his bandages. A number of audience members craned their necks in hope of a better view.
‘It was so calculated,’ the doctor continued, addressing the nurse as if his patient was not there or perhaps was not even fully human. ‘Often with this kind of attack, the perpetrator throws the acid from too far away or too quickly, or they lose their nerve and their hands shake. But in this case, it was done with absolute precision.’ The doctor stabbed the air with a quick, violent motion, and one could clearly imagine the acid’s terrible trajectory. ‘Every drop hit the intended target—Henri’s face.’
The young man’s hands clenched again. Still he did not turn.
‘The attacker had a very cool head. Exceptionally cool,’ the doctor finished.
‘He wanted to maim him,’ the nurse commented nervously.
‘
He
?’ the doctor rebuffed. ‘It was a lady.’
Low murmurs rippled through the audience.
‘Our patient Henri’s estranged fiancée,’ the doctor explained with disgust.‘Should’ve given her the death penalty
…a great performer in court, so I hear. She got off lightly…probably free already. He forgives her. If anything, he helped her get a light sentence.’
The nurse appeared moved. Her mouth hung open as she considered Henri’s magnanimous response to his attacker.‘Love!’ she declared, and looked off into the distance melodramatically, her gaze above the audience, her large eyes catching the light. ‘To forgive like that! No desire for revenge. Just forgiveness! Underneath the pain, you must have great peace to forgive like that…’ The admiration was clear in her voice.
Finally their patient could take no more. He moaned with discomfort, and in strained syllables begged them to hurry with the changing of his dressings, and leave him alone. They hastened their care, and eventually the door shut with a gentle click.
He was alone.
Henri struggled to his feet, swaying slightly from the effects of opium and whatever pain his drugs could not dull. He faced the audience, head heavily bandaged, with only slits for his eyes, nostrils and mouth, a look reminiscent of
The Invisible Man.
He was an image of pity and horror, simultaneously a victim and something from a nightmare. Standing before them, seemingly lost in dark thoughts, he looked to his watch and then felt for something in his dressing gown pocket. Once, twice, he checked for it, and finally held the object up to admire its quiet violence. Light revealed it to be a vial of some substance, made clear by a strain of violin to be a force of destruction. He slipped the vial back into his pocket and looked at his watch with impatience.
There was a knock at the door.
Enlivened, Henri moved across the room, then paused,
bandaged head bowed, his hand lingering above the doorknob. A laboured breath, then he turned the knob and stepped back. There emerged from the doorway an actress of startling, ageless beauty. Her presence was felt throughout the theatre, as if the collective heart of the audience began to beat faster. This was Bijou, the infamous scream queen, the face of the troupe called Le Théâtre des Horreurs. Her shoulder-length hair was ebony, and framed an exquisitely formed face of large, expressive eyes, smooth pale skin and high cheekbones. She wore a silk dress that draped elegantly over her curves, cut on the bias.
She stood rigid, reluctant to enter.
‘Is it…? It is you! At last!’ Henri cried, recognising Jeanne, his estranged fiancée, through his damaged sight. This was the woman responsible for his agony and disfigurement, the woman he loved so much that he had forgiven her and helped her avoid a harsh sentence despite the irreversible damage she had inflicted on him. How would it be to see her now? And how would it be for her to view her gruesome handiwork? Gently, Henri convinced the woman to enter. She took three steps in, and he closed the door.
‘I’m so glad you agreed to come.’
‘It’s the least I could do,’ she managed, her voice quavering.
‘You’re trembling. Am I so disgusting?’
‘No, I’m cold,’ she lied, eyes riveted to his bandaged face.
‘If you removed my bandages you’d be horrified. People shudder when they look at me. Give me your hand. I want you to touch me…I’m a thing without form…or name. I have suffered…and I’m scared,’ he told her.
‘I didn’t want to hurt you!’ she blurted, though clearly this could not be true. She recoiled from him, and inched her way back towards the door.
‘You’re shaking. I can understand why. But don’t worry,’ Henri told her, his voice even. ‘Relax.’ He coaxed her away from the door and did his best to put her at ease. He asked her what she would do now that she was free.
‘I don’t know. Look, I need to get going. I have to see my mother. She’s expecting me,’ she said.
‘Stay a few more minutes. I beg you. I have missed you.’
He gestured to his couch.
Jeanne sat stiffly, and Henri took a spot near her. It was she who had done this to him, and she could not even look.
Henri leaned in. ‘You’d never agree, but…I want to kiss you,’ he told her frankly. ‘There…I’ve said it.
One kiss. The last time.
I’d be so happy, and I’d ask nothing else from you. You could go.’ He was close to her now, only inches from her face. ‘Would you let me kiss you?’
The audience shifted uncomfortably in their seats, some peeking through laced fingers.
‘All right, just don’t hold me so hard,’ Jeanne pleaded. ‘Let me go!’
‘I’m going to punish you!’ Henri cackled triumphantly, pulling the vial from his pocket.